


Summer's In The Air (and baby, heaven's in your eyes)

by rufeepeach



Series: Reckless Abandon [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Golden Lace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1319743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr Gold steals little Lacey French away from Homecoming; they have their own celebration</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer's In The Air (and baby, heaven's in your eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my lovely friend Wonder who has been waiting forever for this. This one's based on 'National Anthem', again by Lana del Rey. I feel this is becoming a habit, or maybe just another chronologically out-of-order explicit series. I seem to be good at that.
> 
> Fair warning, as always: Lacey is 17 in this.

It was early September, and the sun was setting like fire on the horizon. Gold felt that the sheer romanticism of the moment, the late summer heat in the air, could excuse a little impropriety.

She’d sung the national anthem at the high school’s Homecoming, as if she were an innocent, a sweet little girl without a care in the world. She’d stood primly in the center of the field, all auburn hair with red highlights and white sundress, and sung The Star-Spangled Banner in that alto moan that had always caused him trouble.

Little Lacey French was one of Storybrooke’s resident rebels, not just in deed but in thought. She was an expressive little chit who refused to be categorized, and even more so to be predictable.

Another part of his misbehavior could be pinned on that: the girl was changeable as the sea, and just as intriguing.

She sang the national anthem in a sweet white summer dress, the vision of patriotic purity despite her Australian drawl, but he knew there’d be liquor and cigarettes on her warm breath, were one to get close enough to tell. She hung out by the lake with half the senior class, and took boys off into the woods alone, but no one ever spoke of her having a boyfriend. She was an intellectual with a tattoo on her left hip, and a penchant for cheap rum in a hipflask.

She read a lot, did Lacey. He wondered who else in town knew that.

He shouldn’t have noticed, of course: men in their fifties shouldn’t notice the habits of pretty little teenage girls, no matter how sultry their looks or inviting their smiles. But notice he had, and it had been the start of his troubles.

He’d come to the game to threaten the Mayor. She was always in attendance at events like this, trying to act as if she gave a damn about the family values that had gotten her elected. He’d finished his legitimate business before the pre-game trappings had even gotten underway: he’d stayed to hear Lacey sing.

That sundress was a menace unto itself, the twin of one he knew well. It had been red, its counterpart, poppy-red and just as enticing, just as addictive. The summer heat had been his excuse then, and the clear want and invitation in her eyes. She’d practically begged him to corrupt her, to ruin her on the grass. It had been amusing, to see how far he could push her until she broke, and sent him away: she was a game he could win any time he liked, and Gold did like a foregone conclusion.

She was only seventeen, he thought, as she finished the last line and held the note. She was only seventeen, but she walked through town like a wronged queen, all fearless strut and silent dare. The town called her a slut, a troublemaker, a little harlot. She challenged everyone she saw to put their money where their loathsome mouths were, and yet she was such a wispy little thing, uncertain and young, flighty as a moth beneath that hard exterior.

She was temptation itself, the dual urges to shatter and to keep her forcing him to linger, to watch from the shadows beside the bleachers, as she curtseyed, giggled, waved, and left.

She caught his eye as she walked down a different path, and winked. He inclined his head, smirked right back, conspiratorial as a thief and just as cruel. He should let her get back to her little teenaged life, but he knew she’d not go willingly. Lacey French was made for something else, something both better and worse, and he knew that better than anyone.

She stopped to watch him, and he slunk back into the shadows as he turned on his heel, and returned to his car.

He lingered to watch the sunset.

He stayed to see what she would do.

His passenger door was flung open, and he was assailed by the scent of cheap body-spray and cigarette smoke. She was already smoking as she threw herself into the seat, and slammed the door shut, popping her feet onto the dashboard, her floaty white skirt pooling around her hips.

She didn’t try to straighten it, just took a drag of her cigarette and eyed him. “Where’re you going?” she asked, coyly. Playing the adult. Lacey always tried to surprise him: perhaps she hoped that if she played the part long enough, one day he’d look at her and see someone twice her age, and worthy of respect.

He respected her mind, and a few years of experience would make her a force to be reckoned with. And he couldn’t help but recognise the force she was up against, growing up in this poisonous little town.

“Nowhere in particular,” he told her. She raised an eyebrow.

“Sounds good to me,” she shrugged, leaning back in the seat as if he’d invited her along.

He put his hand on her extended leg, brazen, on the exposed flesh of her thigh. “You sure?”

“When am I not?” she sighed, her eyes still closed.

He laughed, and removed the hand to start the car. It was an automatic, thankfully, and once he’d put it in drive and gotten them out on the road, he moved his right hand from the wheel and put it on her shoulder.

He didn’t hold her close, arm around her back like a boyfriend, instead he just let his fingers stroke the soft skin of her neck, the smooth unblemished curve there and higher, where her hair was pinned back in a waterfall down her spine, exposing her throat.

He shifted his palm, so it rested across the back of her neck, under that curtain of dark curls. She sighed, and shifted; he held on a little tighter.

Gold was a connoisseur of broken and beautiful things; Lacey French was both.

“Why’d they have you singing?” he asked, after a long silent moment. Her breathing had grown heavier, since he started to touch her; he wondered if she could feel the possession implicit in his grip on her neck.

“Why not?” she asked, as if the whole subject were beneath her. He laughed.

“You’re hardly Miss America, pet.”

“What gave it away?” she said, drolly, finally putting her legs down. She stretched, catlike and relaxed. He wondered if he’d erred somewhere, in allowing her to feel so comfortable in his car, trapped with him here when he’d made his intentions clear. “The accent or the many, many letters of concern to my father?”

“Now, I’d know nothing about that, would I?” he made the picture of honest denial, were it not for the wink he threw her at the end.

“Oh please,” she snorted, “as if you don’t go through Moe’s mail whenever you’re in the house.”

“Only if it has your name on it, pet,” he muttered. She blushed. She was pretty, he thought, when she looked honestly innocent and girlish. Soft and vulnerable: someone who shouldn’t be in the car with the town monster, on her way to god-knew-where to do god-knew-what.

She sighed to break the odd tension that had settled, and explained. “Miss Merriweather – I told you about her, the bitchy guidance counsellor who thinks I’m going to fail life and become a hooker?”

“Oh yes, you mentioned her, with half a dozen other epithets.”

Lacey snickered, “Well, she said she’d get off my back if I engaged in school activities once in a while. So I sang at Homecoming. The national anthem’s not hard, anyway, and no one else wanted to. You can’t be Queen if you have other duties, and even Ruby’s going out for that.”

“You don’t want to be a Queen?” he asked, amused. He was always amused by her, among other, less reputable things.

“Oh yeah, I want to be Queen of Storybrooke High. Maybe they’d even give me a plaque and the key to the city!”

“Have to get past the Mayor for that, first.”

“Oh yeah,” Lacey sniffed, derisively, “Sour-faced cow.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” he grinned.

They kept driving, and Lacey rolled the windows down so that the air whipped through the car, her hair ran rampant around her face. She threw her cigarette out of the window, and popped a stick of pink bubblegum into her mouth.

“Don’t get that on my seats,” he scolded, mildly. She rolled her eyes, and blew a bubble right in his face.

He drove them up through the woods, past the convent, and Lacey snickered, “This where you drop me off to take my vows and mend my ways?”

He leered at her, “You would look fetching in a wimple. And think about how many commandments you could break then!”

She giggled, a charming little sound. “That would be fun,” she conceded. “And think of how it’d piss off the Mother Superior if you fucked one of her own nuns in the chapel.”

“It’d be worth it just for that,” he agreed. No one mentioned the assumption that he’d bother to come inside at all, that she would be worth the effort.

They kept on past the convent, up the hill. They finally pulled in on the crest of the hill, looking over the rest of town from high above. Apart. Two outsiders, in the dark and apart from the rest of the world, and all of a sudden he felt a twinge of remorse for dragging her off here with him.

He got out of the car, and leaned on the hood. She got out to join him, and leaned beside him with her arms folded, watching the stars expectantly.

“Ah, Gold, no offence but this is kinda boring,” she said, after a long silence. He rolled his eyes.

“And sitting on that bench of yours with an old paperback is the life and soul of the party?”

“Fine, jeez,” she held up her hands, “What’re we doing here?”

He pointed out at the bare night sky. A moment later, it was alive with fireworks, red white and blue, bursting high above them. “Fireworks,” he said. “Thought it’d be easier to see them up here.”

“Homecoming,” she sighed, nodding, finally understanding. Then she laughed, and shook her head.

“Something funny, dear?”

“It’s just a bit romantic, isn’t it?” she snickered. “Bringing me up here to watch the fireworks.”

She had a point.

He silenced her with a long, hot kiss to her red lips, and dragged her around so he was crowding her; so she had to watch the fireworks bursting above them over his shoulder as she sat on the bonnet, slim legs wrapped around his hips. “Still romantic, dearie?” he hissed into her ear, as his fingers dug punishingly into the soft flesh of her thighs.

“Stop talking,” she whispered back, and ground up against him, surprisingly wet against his suit trousers. He slid curious hands up to her hips, and found what he should have expected.

“No knickers?” he raised a surprised eyebrow, “In front of people?”

“Call it optimism,” she grinned, and bit down on his lower lip, hard, tugging him down to her so she was sprawled like a sacrifice on his car bonnet, and he was braced over her, held in place only by her bare legs, her skirt around her stomach. “Someone would have taken me up on it.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” he grunted, as she pressed herself harder against him, rutting her bare cunt against his clothed crotch, and she was like the fireworks, and the bubblegum he could taste on her tongue: transient, burning hot and bursting fast. It was all too good to last, running too hot, burning on impact; she was too much for anyone to handle, too much to be contained.

Her hot little hands worked at his flies, and drew him out to lie hard and heavy in her palm. They’d never done this, he realised, not properly: they were always all hands and mouths, favors and reciprocation, two halves of a deal. They’d never actually fucked, not properly. And he was not stupid enough to get a silly little teenager pregnant, no matter how tempting she made abject foolishness appear.

But she was already fumbling in her cleavage, and he gaped as she fished out a little foil square, and grinned, always pleased to outsmart him. 

“You can’t remember underwear, but you can remember that?” he sneered, to cover his surprise.

“Two sides of one coin, Gold,” she said, airily, refusing to rise to the bait. “Can’t do one without the other. Well, not easily.”

She slid it on with the practiced skill of a dab hand, and he didn’t comment, didn’t pursue the line of thought that whispered, traitorously he wished she weren’t so quick, so eager, so easy to please, and so practiced in getting what she wanted.

It was utter nonsense, that innate jealousy: a virgin, blushing and sweet, would bore him in minutes, and he’d leave feeling guilty, restless and unsatisfied. And he hadn’t the patience or the goodness of soul to claim he’d enjoy being responsible to anyone, even pretty little Lacey French

It was more fun to debauch the wicked, anyway. Lacey could appreciate and admire the work he did on her, the wreckage and the ruin. She was a connoisseur too.

He grinned down at her, leered at her breasts, eyed her candy apple lips. He saw her chest rise with her sudden intake of breath, her soft little gasp. Her sweet little body was never quite prepared, it seemed, for the kind of trouble her sharp red mouth could cause.

He took her by surprise, sheathing himself in one firm thrust without apparent care for her comfort. There’d been a little too much care this evening, after all, and he was not ignorant nor naïve enough to think he was even close to being her first. Lacey was young but she wasn't a child: she could more than look after herself. If she objected, she’d say so. She was the one lying back like a banquet, like a sacrifice all wrapped in white, begging to be taken advantage of. 

As it was, she swooned and bucked against him, arms slung around his neck tightening to pull him closer. She was tight as sin and hotter than hell around his cock, and he buried an embarrassing moan in the side of her neck, biting down hard on the soft flesh to keep from saying something better left unheard.

One hand kept him braced, while the other moved to brush over her breast. He found a tight nipple through the fabric of her dress and pinched, hard: he was pleased when she didn’t feign a moan. She didn’t even make a sound as he fondled her chest and fucked her tight little cunt; she just shuddered uncontrollably, all over, her little white teeth clamped down hard on her lower lip.

“How’re the fireworks?” he growled into her ear, nipping at her neck when she didn’t immediately reply.

“Breathtaking,” she panted back, and exploded around him, burning up and breaking into a thousand pieces.


End file.
